


A Mask of My Own Face

by Sabriel (the_one_a_m_writer)



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: ...kind of., AU: somewhere in the 17th century???, Almost-non-anachronistic use of printing presses but not typewriters, Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Heist, Masquerade, Thief Catra, based on a lemon demon song, bounty hunter Adora, how much thought did I put into those jobs? hm None, which is how you know it's a little off the wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_a_m_writer/pseuds/Sabriel
Summary: Adora is at a masquerade, trying to catch a thief; she knows the thief far better than she should.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	A Mask of My Own Face

**Author's Note:**

> [This post](https://sabriel-writes.tumblr.com/post/623544967514767360/wlw-catra-drtoof-a-sequel-more-she-ra-two), which is not by me, made me feel many emotions, such as good-but-in-an-indescribable-way and nostalgia-for-two-months-ago and light-fear and Adora-would-definitely-do-that, so it did indeed get stuck in my brain. I started listening to Lemon Demon/Neil Cicierega's entire discography on the way to work, found a song titled "A Mask of My Own Face," got home from work and immediately wrote this story while listening to Mouth Sounds.  
> Then I gave this story to my friend to make up for the fact that I introduced him to Two Trucks.  
> Anyway, none of this 'notes' stuff sets the tone whatsoever for the story. Have fun reading!

_Catra must be getting away,_ Adora thought, then said something violently unladylike in her head that she was not ashamed of in the least. 

She scanned the crowd of the masquerade. It was teeming with people in masks, of course; all Adora had to go on were figures (now stuffed into corsets) and gaits (altered by fancy shoes) and eyes (lined with white or black makeup that changed the shape). 

She’d taken bounties on members of Catra’s crew maybe ten times already-- so many, but then again, the crew was well known-- but this? This was new. This was different. 

> _The Masquerade Ball_
> 
> _The Eleventh Hour_
> 
> _The Greatest Prize_

That was the note she had received under her door, and the reason she was at this party. One anonymous tip, not-- not cut from a newspaper, but somehow printed with the machine or the stamps that newspapers used. The note had implied that the one she sought-- that elusive thief, her latest bounty, _Catra herself--_ would be at the night’s ball. 

And Adora had known it would be a masquerade, so she’d rallied herself for an evening of scanning jawlines, thanking secretly, for the first time, her suppressed obsession with the cut of her quarry’s jaw. 

(She excused it: after so long working against a girl, she thought, one couldn’t help but have found oneself attached in some way.) 

But this was not a Glimmer Brightmoon masquerade, or a Mermista Salineas masquerade; those were masquerades one went to when they wanted to seem scandalous, and wanted to pretend anonymity, but everyone always knew who was who. 

No, this was a D.T. Laufeysbairn masquerade, and roughly half of the attendees could not risk being identified by anyone except who they danced with. This was a masquerade where people in dresses danced with people in dresses, and people in suits danced with people in suits; this was a masquerade where if the wrong person lifted the wrong mask, there would be a newspaper headline the next morning and a disgraced family the next evening. 

Adora was, as it happened, following the same precautions of a full-face mask and gloves and not an inch of skin showing, but not for the same reasons. The longer she spent with her face unrecognizable, the longer she had an edge on Catra. 

(Or so she believed.)

...

Three people passed her, each of them with the lithe near-androgyny that Catra had. Each had a full mask and their hair wound up and tied under a cloth covering. There was a cat, and a mouse, and a swan. 

Adora froze. One of these, maybe, was Catra. She hadn’t seen many other slim, short bodies in suits at the party, and knew that one thing that the thief would never deign to do was wear a skirt. 

She hid behind her own peacock mask (no, not a peahen; yes, she knew this was a faux pas and did not care), and studied the cat closely. Their movement was hindered by a pair of kitten-heeled shoes (the heel wide and flat; the shoes black), but it was still sauntery and easy. 

But no. Cat would be too on the nose. And Catra, though showy, was not stupid. 

Adora followed the swan. 

...

The swan was Catra’s height, and wearing low, flat shoes; a sensible choice-- how like Catra. If there was a Catra, there was a good chance of a Scorpia and an Entrapta as well-- the only two permanent members of Catra’s crew; the only other two for whom she’d yet accepted no bounties. Adora tracked every movement the swan made, looking for a sign of the other two.

A few times during the night, Adora’s mind flashed back to that note. Who had access to a printing press? A newspaper printing press? Who had tipped her off-- and what did they stand to gain?

But, she thought, _don’t look a gift horse in the mouth._ Not when every informant she had was on the far side of the law.

She wondered what Scorpia would be wearing. Entrapta would not dress up, she knew that much; she’d seen the woman all of once, and even then it was a fleeting glance. Entrapta was their behind-the-scenes person. Maybe Scorpia would be wearing a suit as well; she was such a tall and buff woman that she would be too unique (and therefore too recognizable) in a dress. 

Except--

Adora had forgotten, again, to factor in the manner of the masquerade ball. She spotted one tall, buff, and exquisitely corset-and-skirt clad person, and they had skin the rich, dark brown of loam, visible on their neck and in the space between their sleeves and their bronze gloves, and that was certainly not Scorpia’s color. So, maybe Scorpia _was_ wearing a dress. Adora suddenly felt for her-- she’d seen how uncomfortable the woman looked in suits-- and shut that down just as quick as she’d felt it; sympathy for the trio of thieves was not what she needed right now. 

It was ten o’clock, and she’d not seen the swan she was tailing meet up with any buff women or indeed do anything remotely suggestive of nefarious plans, and Adora wondered if she should go back and find the mouse. 

Her thoughts turned to the note again. Eleventh hour-- that must mean eleven o’clock. One hour to figure out what the plan was. The greatest prize-- the Laufeysbairn Casket, surely. That was a small and extraordinarily decorated box, wound with gold and dotted with lime-green gems, that was said to hold a trickster-spirit captive inside. 

Should she alert D.T.? 

No, she decided; no reason for a fuss. She also decided, forcibly, that this wasn’t indicative of her selfish want to have the capture of Catra to herself and herself alone. 

...

Someone in a wide-skirted, deep indigo dress bowed low in front of Adora and held out a hand wordlessly. They weren’t dressed as anything in particular, but the tiara-mask was gorgeous nonetheless. 

Adora shook her head minutely, but somewhat helplessly; she didn’t actually have a lead, and the hour was slipping away, and she hadn’t danced a single dance the whole night. 

She liked dancing. She did. And, she realized, she did want to dance with a _girl--_ with _this_ girl, who had soft curves and who came up maybe to Adora’s chin. Maybe she’d let Adora lead, for a change. 

So when the girl inclined her head in acceptance of Adora’s refusal and started away, Adora grabbed her wrist and said in a rough whisper, trying to disguise her voice, _“Actually--”_

She cut off; that one word was probably enough for the indigo girl to realize Adora had changed her mind. Adora offered _her_ hand this time, palm up in the manner of a man, and the girl took it palm down in the manner of a lady; Adora would be leading, then. 

And she did. For two dances. She spun the girl around the floor, and it was exhilarating. 

At the end of the second dance, she bowed apologetically (bowed, despite her skirt) and the girl nodded and curtseyed, and they parted ways. 

It was ten thirty. The hour was slipping by. Adora found herself panicking, but couldn’t find any regret for the dances. 

...

The Eleventh Hour. 

The Greatest Prize. 

There was something Adora was missing, clearly. She scanned desperately for the mouse, or for a different individual wearing a suit and a cocky attitude, but found nothing. 

Printed. The note was printed. Why was she so stuck on it? It was an anonymous tip; she’d already decided to accept it for what it was and not look for the giver. In her line of work, the line that was barely more legal than the line of the person she chased, one did not _ask quest--_

_Printed._

Who had access to spare mechanical parts of all manners? Who had the talent to put together a printing press with nothing more than the stamps themselves? Who would be able to print an anonymous tip-- and who would think of disguising themselves in that way, rather than by hiring someone else to pen their letter, as anyone else in the city might have?

_Entrapta._

The note--

The note was from Catra.

...

Well, she thought somewhat glumly, it wouldn’t be the first time Catra had tried to throw her off the trail with a distraction. She did wonder why Catra had picked now to throw her off the trail; Adora hadn’t _had_ a trail before tonight, even though she’d had the bounty for a week. Had Catra thought she had some information as to Catra’s plans?

Idly, she wondered what “The Eleventh Hour” and “The Greatest Prize” truly meant. If Catra felt like having some fun-- like playing with Adora-- then surely those two lines had a double meaning as well; maybe even one that betrayed the original plan, but Adora would not find out how until it was too late. 

“The Masquerade Ball” had been easy; of course Catra had chosen an event that meant _disguise._ “The Eleventh Hour” also meant “at the last minute”, so whatever was occurring, presumably it was happening-- well-- at the last minute. 

(D.T.’s masquerade would end at midnight, Adora recalled.)

Actually, if one combined “The Greatest Prize” with “The Eleventh Hour”, one could assume that Catra and co. were pulling one final, blowout heist. 

By the end of tonight, would Adora be out of a job? Would Catra sink invisibly into infamy, and never land a strike again? 

Well, then, this was Adora’s last chance. 

...

The big clock chimed eleven while Adora leaned against a wall staring sightlessly into the party. D.T. walked down the stairs as dramatic as anything, hours late to their own party, but Adora suspected they'd been in perfect disguise the entire time and secretly among the guests. 

“A celebration!” they said, their voice ringing out over the partygoers. Their outfit was scandalous by any measure without showing an inch of skin; the pants were perfectly cut men’s suit-pants and the shirt was the finest, most decorated women's dress-top Adora had ever seen. The gloves were riding gloves, and the necklace glinted with green gems. “A celebration of our uniqueness! A celebration of life, and of freedom! We have an hour left, my lovely guests; and this night is for firsts and for lasts and for _chances.”_

There was a low, rumbling approval-- not quite applause, but some spontaneous acknowledgement of D.T.’s work. 

D.T. descended into the crowd, and Adora focused her eyes and tracked them; they were, after all, currently the most interesting thing at this party. 

D.T. winked at nothing at all and green gems glittered at their throat. They lifted one person’s hand so they could twirl under it, and grinned and bowed simultaneously with someone else; there was a tall woman in a crimson dress with tiny little butterfly wings who D.T. blew a kiss to, and the woman brought her hands to her mouth. 

D.T. moved on, but Adora found herself still watching the tall woman. The butterfly wings were a funny shape; they reminded her of something. The woman’s red dress was billowy, including the sleeves; it was a rather innocent style, compared to the corsets some wore.

Adora squinted and her eyes traced the wings’ outline and _of course._

Back muscles, that’s what they reminded her of. The sculpted back muscles that go along with well-defined _everything_ muscles of one Scorpia Last-Name-Unknown, Catra’s number two. 

And suddenly Adora knew exactly where Catra was. 

...

Escaping up the stairs would be hard, but D.T. had suddenly drawn everyone’s attention to the other end of the room, and in the precious moments, Adora took the two steps she had to take in highlighted visibility and then vanished behind the banister. She slinked along it the rest of the way up, hidden in enough shadow from the inadequate candle-lighting that she was no longer too worried. 

The Casket must have been in D.T.’s room, but that was not where Adora went; she went to the exit onto the wraparound banister in the back of the house, and sure enough, there was a girl in a suit and a cat mask sitting on the banister rail and kicking her legs over the two-story drop. 

“Catra.” 

“I know I said Eleventh Hour, but you really did cut time tight, my darling,” Catra said, slinging her legs back across the banister rail. 

“As you knew I would. I assume D.T. is in on this.” 

“Not as much as you think. They’re just a confidant-- well-- a friend, really.” 

“Well, then-- what’s the prize?”

Catra swanned up to Adora and got _very_ in her space. “I still believe in you, Adora.” 

“That’s great-- but I’m supposed to be capturing you.”

“Yeah.” Catra waved her hand; _unimportant._ “This party lasts for another, oh, forty minutes, I believe.” 

“Well, yes.” 

“And yes, you are supposed to be capturing me-- but would you look at that?” Catra raised her hands. “I’m not captured.” 

Adora went for Catra’s wrists _instantly._ She knew the thief like she knew her own mind. 

And she was too slow-- because as she had guessed, Catra fled down the stairs and back into the crowd. 

...

Adora was back in the thick of the masquerade ball looking for cat ears and a swagger in a suit. 

She’d said ‘cat’ was too on-the-nose, and she’d been correct. Catra was making this easy for her, which was why she suspected the capture would be the hardest thing yet. 

She’d foiled a few of Catra’s heists before (by capturing the partner-of-the-day whose bounty she actually had, true, but it almost always meant chasing Catra herself and then picking off the partner at the last moment), and it was always satisfying, but somehow never as satisfying as the chase itself. Now that she was back on the chase, she felt exhilarated. She expected Catra felt the same way. 

No, she-- she hoped. And she thought Catra felt the same way. 

Today, when Adora caught Catra-- _when,_ she was _sure_ of it-- it wouldn’t be as simple as taking her wrists and exposing her plan. The plan was laid bare. This _was_ the plan. As far as Adora could tell, Catra penciled in whatever planner she had ‘be captured by Adora' at roughly eleven forty. 

There was a stir in the crowd. Adora followed the eddies of it, acting on instinct. She couldn’t catch Catra, not like the way she thought she could. 

And then, selfishly, she thought, when she caught up to the cat-eared girl, she would ask her to dance. 

...

Adora spotted Catra not too long after their balcony rendezvous, and approached her as fast as she could without disturbing the flow of the masquerade party. 

And, upon reaching her, Adora extended her hand palm up like she had for the indigo girl and wordlessly asked Catra to dance. 

Catra took Adora’s hand. 

It was the first time they’d touched like this, all non-violent-like. Catra took Adora’s hand. Adora’s palm was up, and Catra’s palm was down, so Adora would be leading. Catra was, after all, shorter by a precious few inches. 

They didn’t speak. That wasn’t how these things went. Adora almost thought they were pretending Adora did not know Catra was behind the cat mask, and Catra did not know Adora was the peacock. 

Adora felt a stab of panic-- Catra _could_ have brought a double and left post haste-- but Adora realised she knew Catra, far better than she should know an enemy. She knew her frame and the way she moved and her quiet confidence. 

They danced together to an energetic song. Adora led to the best of her ability, whirling Catra around. Catra went easily, which both unsettled Adora and pleased her. 

At the end of the song, Catra curtsied to end the partnership. Adora, caught off guard, bowed hastily. Catra spun off, snatched up immediately by a boy in a golden suit that was cropped at the ribs. Adora wondered how much money he destroyed when he took scissors to that suit as he so clearly had. 

And, jealously, she followed the couple. They both seemed to be dancing for the love of dancing, not for any particular desire for each other; the boy (with a lion’s mane scarf) kept Catra at a very respectable distance, and Catra likewise kept him perfunctorily at a safe gap. 

The crowd swallowed them up. 

The indigo girl was, suddenly, at Adora’s elbow. She didn’t offer Adora her hand, but did stare at the spot where the lion boy and Catra had disappeared, and then glanced from Adora to the spot and back several times. 

Adora nodded, thinking she knew where the girl was coming from. She gestured a lion’s mane around her neck and looked questioningly at the girl, who dramatically sighed her infatuation for the boy. 

Adora nodded again and gestured cat ears helplessly. 

The girl laughed and made a little “roar!” gesture, emphasizing the teeth and claws. She patted Adora’s arm sympathetically, and then she, too, was gone as well. 

...

Adora caught up to Catra for the last time at twelve minutes to midnight. 

She knew it would be the last time before she even found Catra. She knew whatever she did, she’d never be able to un-realize the affection she held for the little thief. 

Catra was lounging in wait for Adora, and Adora approached, and knew how to catch Catra. 

She set out her hand palm down. Following. 

Catra extended her hand palm up, and Adora placed her hand in Catra’s, and from that moment until the end of the dance, she was Catra’s to direct. Catra walked her slowly out into the middle of the floor, and then they began to dance. Adora was a relatively capable dancer, but Catra was sublime; she managed to push Adora into complicated moves she was certain she hadn’t known before that instant. 

At the end of the song Catra dipped her low and then pulled her back to her feet. 

There were usually two options: another dance, or a respectful bow or curtsey and the parting of ways; instead, Catra beckoned Adora outside. 

It was six minutes to midnight. The chill night air greeted them, but it was welcome after the stuffiness of the party, and Adora finally lifted her peacock mask and peeled her gloves from her sweaty palms. 

Catra, too, lifted her mask, but her gloves stayed; instead, she removed her jacket to reveal that the shirt underneath had sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and draped her jacket over her arm. “Shall we?”

“Where are we going?”

“I was going to take you back to my hideout, as you’ve so quaintly called it before,” Catra said, leading Adora to a covered carriage. The two climbed in; Adora went first, and Catra first held her mask and then helped lift her skirts before climbing in herself.

“Really?”

“I’m going to show you that my line of work and your line of work are not so different-- and-- I want you on my team.” 

“Was the greatest prize-- was it me?”

Catra shrugged. “I don’t know. I just wrote something that looked... poetic. Something that would actually get you to the party.” 

“I would have gone on much less than that.” 

“I know, but I wanted to be certain.” 

“Was the prize _you?_ I have your bounty, after all.” 

“You do have my bounty,” Catra agreed, “and on that matter-- I have a proposal for you; you may already know what it is. We can address it once we’re somewhere safe. But no. I told you. I made up nine words that would fit nicely on a page.” 

“It was me,” Adora said, sure of it now. “The prize was me. You don’t want me on your team; you just want me.” 

“Shut up.” 

Adora considered that, then simply leaned over and, after waiting for Catra’s assent, kissed her. 

And kissed her, and kissed her-- 

No words were exchanged for the rest of the carriage ride. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Art!!!](https://sabriel-writes.tumblr.com/post/626629932310724608/read-a-mask-of-my-own-face-on-ao3-this-is-adora)
> 
> Yes, Indigo is indeed Glimmer, and Lion Boy is Bow. 
> 
> There are two possible after-endings to this story.  
> No. 1:  
> \--Adora agrees to go along with Catra’s plan of faking Catra’s capture, collecting the bounty, and then springing her from jail  
> \--Adora joins the crew, but remains a bounty hunter; she stops taking bounties on Catra’s crew, and she gets new informants and also a gf  
> \--Catra gets out of this situation access to Adora’s informants, a new pair of hands and quick intelligence for heists, and a gf  
> No. 2, inspired by my friend’s supposition of where this could go:  
> \--Adora refuses and captures Catra anyway  
> \--Catra springs herself from jail. It takes longer; it involves Adora turning a bit of a blind eye  
> \--Adora refuses another bounty on Catra, and never takes one on Scorpia or Entrapta, but continues to take ones for the rest of Catra’s crew; this has her following Catra around constantly  
> \--They make bad decisions because of course they do and suddenly they’re having an illicit Romeo-and-Juliet relationship while Adora continues to hunt down Catra’s entire crew one by one and Catra starts to go specifically after Adora’s biggest clients


End file.
